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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24238930">Motivation</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/pseuds/Castillon02'>Castillon02</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Early in Canon, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Paralysis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:53:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,931</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24238930</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/pseuds/Castillon02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaskier thinks Geralt has a talking problem. Geralt thinks Jaskier has a listening problem. They figure it out.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>105</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>860</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Motivation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you to midrashic for being a brilliant beta!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Trees susurrating. Birds chirping. Pine cones crunching against his boot when he kicked them. It looked and sounded like any other place in the foothills of the northern mountains, those towering earthen teeth that chewed up invading armies before spitting them back out into neighboring Redania or Kaedwen. A perfectly normal forest except for the fact that there were monsters.</p><p>Mysterious monsters. Mysterious monsters in walking distance, in fact. </p><p>Geralt never told him anything. “Stay with Roach,” he said. “Endregas are dangerous,” he said. But he had said the same thing about the drowners (easy to outrun), the nekkers (foiled by the dastardly scheme of hiding in a tree), and the griffin (admittedly not a good day). </p><p>Endregas were insectoids, was all Jaskier knew, because Geralt had had to make more ‘insectoid oil’ for his blade. Surely something with ‘insect’ in the name was closer to being a pesky drowner than a sadistic nightmare lion-bird? </p><p>(Jaskier was going to kill whoever had composed that epic about the ‘noble griffin,’ he really was.) </p><p>The long and short of it was that Jaskier waited a good, long, respectable time, until surely Geralt must have killed all of the little endrega insects. This was quite coincidentally about how long it took him to draft a comedic ballad about a court jester foolishly discovering how fearsome griffins were and why a Witcher should be the one to deal with them. </p><p>Roach glared at him as he left. </p><p>“It will be fine,” he told her. </p><p>—</p><p>Endregas turned out to be terrifying, pony-sized scorpion-things. Unlike other monsters that specialized solely in melee combat, they could, from several yards away, hurl venomous needles at innocent bards who screamed when they saw them. </p><p>“Shit, fuck, fuck, shit!” </p><p>Luckily, Jaskier’s appearance distracted the beast and Geralt dispatched it easily while its back was turned. </p><p>Unluckily, the poison from the needles in his arm made all of Jaskier’s muscles turn to white hot jelly, and he just had time to sit down before collapsing the rest of the way to the ground.  </p><p><em>Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch</em>…</p><p>Geralt kneeled next to him and yanked the endrega spines out of his arm. “Arrogant ass,” he said. </p><p>Probably true! But uncalled for in this specific circumstance, which was quite humiliating! Jaskier tried to protest, but his mouth wouldn’t open, his lips wouldn’t work—he couldn’t talk. He couldn’t move. Oh, gods. </p><p>“Mmmm!” Jaskier said through his closed mouth. Everything hurt. Then he tried to moan again, only to find that his throat wouldn’t flex to make the sound. </p><p>Would his lungs stop next? </p><p>He heard a distinctive ripping sound and Geralt tied something tight around his injured arm. “Fucking death wish bard. Do you want to die? Is that why you keep following me?” </p><p>Naturally, the monster’s paralytic venom didn’t have the courtesy to wear off even though there were several important complaints he needed to make. These included, but were not limited to, ‘You fucking idiot, as if there aren’t easier ways to die than traipsing after an octogenarian monster mercenary,’ and ‘Did you really have to bandage me with part of my second-favorite doublet, you absolute fiend.’  </p><p>He tried to breathe aggravatedly. His lungs faltered out of the rhythm they were in, but only for a moment; they quickly went back to a disturbingly regular in-and-out. It occurred to Jaskier that endregas might like to keep their victims alive and feed off of them long-term. Maybe they laid their eggs in people’s still-living bodies. Maybe—</p><p>He took another strangled breath, held it for the two-seconds-longer-than-normal that the venom seemed to let him get away with before forcing him to exhale.  </p><p>“Don’t try to talk,” Geralt said, glaring down at him, his eyes potion-black. “Idiots who don’t listen don’t get to talk. Roach has more right to human speech than you do.” He hauled Jaskier over his shoulders and didn’t say anything for the rest of the walk back to their camp. It wasn’t his usual listening-for-danger silence, either. It was a cold, frozen thing that gnawed at Jaskier’s belly.   </p><p>He’d fucked up. No doubt about that. Watch this be the final straw. Jaskier had always been a hindrance as well as a helpmeet, but never before had he so completely embodied the term ‘dead weight.’ If Geralt left him by the roadside in the morning, Jaskier wouldn’t even blame him. </p><p>Well, all right, no, he would definitely blame Geralt. How was he supposed to know that endregas could shoot venomous spines at people if Geralt didn’t tell him? But he would blame himself much more.  </p><p>—</p><p>They had set up camp in an empty and only slightly sloping space on the edge of the local wood, a stream gurgling not too far away, a stone fire pit already set up when they got there: a place for hunters to rest and butcher their kills, maybe, when they were returning from higher up in the mountains. In any case, as soon as they arrived, Geralt swept him off his shoulders and dropped him like a dead deer at the base of the nearest tree. </p><p>Free of his burden, Geralt went to Roach, who was tethered on the side of the clearing nearest the stream. “Good girl,” Geralt said, a little louder than usual, and from across the camp came the sound of Roach snorting and chewing contentedly. “You stayed right where I put you.” </p><p>Yes, yes, Jaskier was a fuck-up and Roach was perfect. What else was new? </p><p>After Roach had been seen to, Geralt came back to him with a foul-tasting potion that he poured into Jaskier’s mouth and massaged down his throat, fingers scratchy-callused but gentle. Jokes and protests came and went in Jaskier’s head, <em>Careful with the goods, that’s my second-most sensitive instrument if you know what I mean</em>, but he couldn’t say anything—he could only lie there and accept that Geralt literally held his fate in his hands. </p><p>Geralt always did, of course, but usually Jaskier could poke and cajole him about it. It was strange to have his mouth frozen and know that Geralt was caring for him anyway. </p><p>Once he’d swallowed the potion, Geralt shoved him onto his side facing the tree, chin tilted up so breathing was easier. “Stay there,” he told Jaskier with a low, amused grunt.</p><p>A sense of humor—a crack of light wit from the brooding champion! The pain was almost worth it.  </p><p>Jaskier couldn’t see anything important from this angle, but the sound of Igni lighting a campfire was familiar, and so was the pitter-patter of oats and the splash of water into Geralt’s cooking pot. He might have thought the bland dinner was a punishment, but he didn’t even know if Geralt would feed him. One mouthful of potion had been trouble enough. </p><p>At least the foul draught seemed to be doing something. The dying light of dusk glimmering through the trees began to fade, and as time passed the fire under his skin dulled from a boil to a feverish ache. </p><p>“Try to move your fingers and toes,” Geralt said once the evening chores were finished. “Antidote should be working.” He sounded a bit less pissed off now that he had eaten. Fair. Jaskier would have been hungry-grumpy too if he’d been killing a bunch of monsters since lunch. </p><p>His toes wiggled first. Maybe because they were furthest from the infected arm? Did the poison work like that? Who cared—he had movement, thank the gods. But, oh—his fingers! What if everything came unparalyzed except his hands? He would have to learn to play the lute with his feet. </p><p>Luckily, a few minutes after his toes started curling and uncurling when Jaskier asked them to, his fingers started twitching as well. “Mrrrr!” He wouldn’t have to become the only foot-lutist on the Continent! </p><p>His limbs hurt less, but they all felt heavy and stupid, like someone had strapped him into plate armor. Still, he tapped his fingers through increasingly complicated chord progressions anyway, and only when he knew he had his full range of motion did he move on to the other, less important body parts. </p><p>Ankles and calves, so important for walking. Thighs and arse—one couldn’t ride without them. And naturally the pelvis and abdominals were crucial for a lot of important movements; Jaskier mimed a couple of thrusts, but a full test of his recovery would have to wait, of course. Chest and lungs: Jaskier drew in deep breaths, short breaths, breaths as long as he could make them. He shimmied his spine, wriggled his arms and shoulders, bent and unbent his neck, worked his jaw, wrinkled his nose, frowned and smiled. </p><p>All movements present and accounted for. Thank Melitele.  </p><p>Jaskier flopped onto his back with a sigh of relief. The stars in the sky had never looked so good. </p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt said, rudely interrupting the celebratory high that came with no longer being paralyzed. </p><p>With effort, Jaskier turned his head to eye him. </p><p>Geralt sighed. He looked serious, not just grumpy. Fuck. “The drowners, the griffin, this,” he said. “If you have a problem with listening to Witchers, why are you here?” He was watching Jaskier closely. Probably he could hear the pace of their heartbeats and taste deceit in the air like a snake or something ridiculous like that.  </p><p>All of those senses didn’t, however, stop Geralt from leaping to horrifically incorrect conclusions. The very<em> idea</em>—</p><p>“Dearest Geralt,” Jaskier said, and ah, to be able to talk again was a wonder! “O’ leaper to conclusions. It’s not a Witcher thing. Of course it’s not. Do you really—? Of course you do; I’m sorry. But have you heard me take an order from anyone? King Foltest could ride up on his stallion and tell me to sing him a song, and I would ask him for more details. Melitele herself could rise up from the earth and tell me to fuck her tits, and I’d wonder whether she’d prefer me to eat her out instead. Hemdall could blow his horn at Ragh nar Roog, and instead of attacking the Chaos monsters, I’d say, ‘Hang on, maybe there’s a chance we can talk this out.’ Freya—” </p><p>“I get it,” Geralt interrupted. </p><p>“Also, if you want me to listen to you, you have to actually say things!” Jaskier said, on a roll now. “I know what the safe distance is for irate spouses, but I don’t know anything about endregas, as you well know. If you had just <em>answered</em>—” </p><p>“If you would just <em>listen</em>—”  </p><p>“I’m not Roach! You have to give me a reason for things instead of clicking your heels into my sides!” </p><p>That, of all things, made Geralt close his mouth. “Hmm,” he said. </p><p>“Hmm,” Jaskier mocked, deep-voiced, because why not shoot himself in the foot while he was down? Still, he took a deep breath and heaved himself onto his side, facing Geralt all the way now. If Geralt were going to try to send him off tomorrow, Jaskier would at least look his fill while he could.  </p><p>The fire crackling, glowing embers in the surrounding dark, and Geralt’s scarred face half in shadow; the sounds of crickets and frogs chirping in the grass; Roach’s horsey smell mixed with the sweet-cold scent of mountain pine. He liked this life. He would miss it if Geralt sent him away. But if they did so poorly at communicating that he ended up half-dead, perhaps a few months of separation would do them good. Jaskier could visit a library, sleep with gruff men, hone his knowledge of monsters and grunted communication. Then he could try again. </p><p>“Come here,” Geralt said then, which he had only said once before, when they had first met and Jaskier had earned himself a punch to the gut. Since then, Geralt had made a point of keeping his distance, the two of them sharing opposite sides of the fire.   </p><p>Jaskier narrowed his eyes. “I’m staying where you put me,” he said. It wasn’t wise to sleep on the cold ground, and Geralt looked very pretty in the firelight, but he was tired, and Geralt might still be angry even if he mostly just sounded tired too. Did Jaskier want to risk being in punching distance? No, he did not. </p><p>Instead of the expected growl, Geralt said, as placid as Jaskier had ever heard him, “Your food is over here.” He held up Jaskier’s bowl, tilted it so Jaskier could see the oat mush. “And your bedroll.” He shifted so Jaskier could better see behind him, and sure enough, that was his bedroll next to Geralt’s. “The venom’s probably neutralized, but if you go stiff in the night and need another dose then I’ll be able to hear it better if you’re closer.”     </p><p>Oh. All of those were actually good reasons. “Fair enough,” Jaskier said. With a massive effort from his abdominals, he shoved himself into a sitting position, pausing once he was up there to let the dizziness fade. Movement he had, and speech, but strength was in sore supply. He would have to crawl, he supposed. It would be boorish to ask Geralt to carry him when the injury was his own fault. </p><p>He’d done worse things for a bit of supper, but by the time he was halfway to his bedroll, he was trembling all over, red in the face from exertion and embarrassment. “Fucking…ribbony…muscles…” he panted, leaning against a tree to catch his breath. </p><p>Geralt had been watching intently, the ass, like Jaskier was the evening entertainment. And his lips were starting to twitch at the edges in an extremely distinctive, smug, condescending bastard way. “Do you need help?” Geralt asked. </p><p>“Nope!” Jaskier chirped, starting to crawl again. “I’m practicing my tortoise impression and I shan’t have you interrupt. It’s very important to get in the right headspace. What is the proper plodding technique, you might ask? Well, it principally involves putting one foot in front of the other despite the slowness of locomotion…”  </p><p>Spite and a fantasy dialogue with a tortoise got him to the bedroll in the end. He let his elbows buckle and flopped onto the soft surface. “Merciful Melitele.”  </p><p>“Good,” Geralt said next to him. </p><p>Jaskier groaned. “Not good,” he countered. His limbs worked, but they were about as useful as lute strings without a lute.  </p><p>But Geralt said, “Very good,” and his tone was uncompromising. </p><p>Jaskier peered up at him. Geralt never thought anything was ‘very good.’ Ever. At most, things were ‘fine’ or ‘not bad enough to waste the air it would take to complain.’</p><p>“I needed to assess the venom’s effects on your movement,” Geralt said. “Now I know what exercises you need to do tomorrow. The day after that, we’ll be able to move on from here.”     </p><p>“All right,” Jaskier said slowly. Did Geralt really plan for them to travel together still? Or was Jaskier actually dying and Geralt didn’t want to tell him because his complaining would be tiresome and it would be easier to just bury his corpse in the morning?    </p><p>Geralt snorted at whatever he saw on Jaskier’s face. “Eat your oats before you sleep,” he said.</p><p>Even the act of lifting a spoon sounded extremely tiring. Jaskier closed his eyes.  </p><p>Miraculously, Geralt continued talking, saying, “The oatmeal is thin enough that you can drink it without a spoon. Food and water will help your body keep healing and you won’t be as sore tomorrow.”    </p><p>Fine. Fuck. Maybe eating was a good idea. Jaskier opened his eyes and forced himself upright.</p><p>“Good,” Geralt said again, which really wasn’t fair of him, using that word like Jaskier deserved it. </p><p>Geralt set the bowl next to him. </p><p>Jaskier lifted it with hands that trembled under the weight, and he stayed quiet when he felt it steady, saw Geralt’s hand with its dregs of endrega slime cupping the bowl for him. He drank his dinner in steady gulps, realizing as he went that he was famished, and fucking thirsty, and maybe, just maybe, Geralt knew what he was about when it came to recovering from monster wounds after having suffered them for decades. </p><p>“Hmm,” Jaskier said when he was finished, thoughtful. </p><p>“Hmm,” Geralt said back, a little higher than usual, a sly crinkle at the corners of his eyes. Mocking—Geralt was mocking him. Incredible. Jaskier was going to market endrega venom as a cure for one’s partner’s phlegmatic temperament. </p><p>“Go to sleep,” Geralt said. </p><p><em>Fuck you</em>, Jaskier thought, but he was tired, so he slept.  </p><p>—</p><p>The next day continued to feature a bafflingly communicative Geralt. </p><p>“Walk a circle around the clearing,” Geralt said after breakfast, which was more oats. “That’s your baseline.” </p><p>And they would measure his progress by having him do it again in the evening, Jaskier inferred. That made sense. He walked a circle around the clearing. It took twenty minutes and involved a lot of leaning against tree trunks so he didn’t fall down, which was shit, but Geralt said, “Good,” afterward, which…wasn’t shit. </p><p>Also, it was better than crawling. And much better than being left by the side of the road. </p><p>“Need to practice,” Geralt said after that, nodding at his lute. “Dexterity.” </p><p>Jaskier wasn’t stupid enough to turn down music time, so he practiced until his fingers wouldn’t move anymore, which was also, coincidentally, when the other parts of his body started feeling well-rested. </p><p>“Stretches,” Geralt said then. He sat next to him on the grass, his legs outstretched, and bent forward so his fingers touched his toes. “Good for your muscles.” He hesitated. “Feels nice.” </p><p>Jaskier mimicked him. It did feel nice; a little bit hurty, but in a way that made his brain feel calm instead of panicked. </p><p>Geralt led him through a long series of stretches, slow and steady. All Jaskier had to do was follow along. Not easy, but not hard. No tricks or hidden expectations. Just if he tried to hold a stretch so long or take it so far that it properly hurt, Geralt somehow sensed it and flicked him in the ribs to make him let go. That only happened a couple of times.</p><p>If only everything in life could be as simple as twisting his body the way Geralt told him to. </p><p>“Definitely feels nice,” Jaskier said, mumbling into his feet. He had his soles pressed together, his forehead touching his toes, his thighs straining pleasantly. If he had only figured out earlier that he could experience the soothing feeling of being pretzeled without having a cock up his arse, there were at least a couple of past fumbles he could have done without. </p><p>“Need to collect the trophies,” Geralt said, standing next to him. “Keep stretching. Or sing. Vocal cords need stretching, too.” </p><p>A good point. Jaskier sat up with a sigh and went through his scales while Geralt put on his armor, and once Geralt was gone he sang the tongue-twisting nonsense songs that most singers delighted in and most sensible people found annoying. </p><p>“<em>Which witcher watches the witcher with the wastrel? The wary witcher watches the witcher with the wastrel!</em>"</p><p>While he warmed up, he walked the clearing again, and found that he could circle it twice without needing to stop for a rest. Progress! He did a few more laps, and more stretches, and hoped that his body would recover enough that he could keep up tomorrow. He had already slowed Geralt down by a day. </p><p>Lacking any other audience for his musical stylings, he serenaded Roach, very carefully not touching her or sitting in biting or kicking distance. But she was a very good girl who deserved to have odes composed about her strong muscles, her chestnut beauty, her determined loyalty! Surely a Witcher’s horse must be the bravest horse in the land. “<em>The bravest in all the land! The best under a Witcher’s hand! She’s a biting beauty, and when the monsters come, she obeys his every command!</em>” </p><p>Roach’s ears flicked. Possible appreciation from his coldhearted patron? </p><p>Then Geralt said behind him, “Pluck these,” and dropped a pair of decapitated wood pigeons in his lap.     </p><p>Ah, well. One day. One day Roach would look at him with something other than indifference. </p><p>In the meantime, Jaskier swiveled around to thank his benefactor. “Cooked lunch! A true novelty. And pigeon, too—it’s been forever since I’ve had a good bird. Did you…?” Jaskier twisted his hand like Geralt did when someone was being unruly enough to warrant a bit of mind control. “Does that even work on animals?” </p><p>“It keeps them calm long enough for me to shoot them,” Geralt said, setting a bloody sack, undoubtedly filled with monster bits, next to Roach’s saddlebags. That done, he sat down to build up the fire. </p><p>Plucking was a task Jaskier’s hands knew well; when it wasn’t the cane at grammar school, it was kitchen duty. One never knew which one it would be, and he had liked helping Henrietta, their cook. This had made for eventful semesters and frustrated school staff.  </p><p>“I got Roach cheap,” Geralt said while Jaskier plucked. “The bravest in all the land was on her way to be glue.” </p><p>“No, not Roach!” Jaskier said, instinctively protesting, only to shut his mouth with a click of his teeth as he realized that Geralt might stop talking if he started.   </p><p>“Mm,” Geralt said. “She was too stubborn. You tried to ride, she’d buck. You tried to steer her left, she went right. Take her for a walk, she wanted to gallop.” </p><p>Jaskier bit his lip. He wasn’t a poet for nothing. He could see where the comparison was going. If even Roach had figured this out, there was no reason he couldn’t do it. </p><p>But instead of threatening him with a metaphorical glue maker, Geralt said, “She needed a reason to listen to me too, at first. Forgot that,” and looked into the flames. </p><p>Jaskier chewed the inside of his cheek. This was probably as close as he was ever going to get to an apology, and he refused to ruin it by pointing out that at least talk was cheaper than sugar lumps or whatever Geralt had used to train Roach. </p><p>“I could be more discerning with my questions before a hunt if I thought you would tell me more,” Jaskier said, compromising. While Geralt frowned about this, Jaskier’s hands, finished with pulling the feathers out, automatically found his boot knife and began to carve up the pigeons. “<em>Surely breasts are a pigeon’s best, but don’t deny the humble thigh!</em>” he chanted to himself. </p><p>“Remind me again why you want to sing about monsters instead of breasts and thighs,” Geralt said. </p><p>Jaskier opened his mouth to expound. </p><p>Geralt held up a hand. “Two sentences or less,” he said. “Good ones. Not your usual patter.”</p><p>“Ooh.” A challenge! Jaskier liked challenges. He thought about it while he played his lute and Geralt roasted their bird bits over the fire. (If only they had enough time to braise things! Pigeon braised in cider was simply divine.) He thought about it while they ate. (A little dry—pigeon really needed added fat to be at its best—but so, so much better than oats.) He thought about it while Geralt exercised Roach, who liked to have a little daily ride even when they weren’t going anywhere, and while he exercised himself by jogging in circles around the clearing. His muscles were recovering. He would be able to keep up tomorrow. He would. </p><p>When Geralt had returned and had occupied himself with grooming Roach, Jaskier said, “Good bards valorize things—it’s what sells, can’t help it—and I would rather valorize a fellow craftsman than a stupid noble or a woman who doesn’t exist. Also, good songs are usually good lies, and good lies usually have a heaping helping of truth in them.” Truth that he couldn’t get in Oxenfurt.  </p><p>“And you want to be good,” Geralt observed, still brushing Roach. </p><p>Jaskier wasn’t touching that one with a ten-foot polearm. “I am,” he said, “an irredeemable nuisance. I’m not going to be good, and I don’t want to be bad, so I am, naturally, going to be the best.” He spread his arms and mock-bowed. </p><p>“With ‘Toss a Coin’?” Geralt asked, a sneer twitching at the corner of his mouth. As if his derision should mean something to a beginning artist who’d just had his first popular success. </p><p>Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Of course not. But the catchy chorus and the shitty lies about elves help people swallow the bitter truth about your Witchery helpfulness, which means more coin for you after you <em>gave all of yours away</em>, which in turn shows that the song is filling both an artistic and a commercial function.” </p><p>Geralt growled. “I didn’t ask to be ‘valorized’!”</p><p>“I know,” Jaskier said, sympathetic. “Unfortunately, it’s much more ethical of me to sing about you and your monsters than it is to sing about someone like Count Whatshisface who wants his ‘glorious triumphs in battle’ praised and immortalized, and by ‘glorious triumphs,’ I of course mean how he maimed and killed a group of starving people who vocally resented his material excesses and inadequate compensation of their labor.” </p><p>Good old dad. Jaskier studied his fingernails. He shouldn’t have been surprised that the wider world was made in dear papa’s image, but it had been nice to believe that a higher authority somewhere actually wanted to take care of people. A pretty little dream, and the iridescent soap-bubble of it had inevitably popped. </p><p>Geralt harrumphed. “You actually care about this shit.”  </p><p>“You care about killing monsters well,” Jaskier said. “I care about telling stories well. We both care about damage control.” </p><p>It hurt, still, thinking of swotting for his exams, working so hard to do well on them, and all the while his history professors must have known that they weren’t actually teaching, they were just—getting row upon row of young nobility to believe in a farce. And Jaskier hadn’t exactly composed an ode to the downtrodden elves either; he’d done the politically expedient thing because their wallets and Filavandrel’s safety-in-secrecy had demanded it. </p><p>One day he wouldn’t need to make that compromise. With Geralt, he would become skilled enough that he could help everyone who needed it. </p><p>“I’m not a ‘friend of humanity,’ I’m a friend of getting paid,” Geralt said. </p><p>Jaskier nodded. “We both care about that too. That is,” he said, smiling, “why I wrote a song about why people should pay you.” </p><p>The barb struck true; he saw rue in Geralt’s narrowed golden eyes and in the lick of his tongue against his chapped lips. If mercenary motives were all Geralt had, then Jaskier should be able to sing about whatever he pleased so long as it put coin in Geralt’s pockets. </p><p>“Fuck,” Geralt said. </p><p>Jaskier smiled some more. “I could write a song about not paying you,” he suggested innocently. </p><p>“Go take your baseline again.” </p><p>Jaskier started running, a full-on sprint, just because he could. “Or I could write another song about monsters that don’t exist!” he said, panting. “A monster misinformation song. But that would make me part of the problem, Geralt—I might as well write fake notice boards!” </p><p>“Everything about you is a fake notice board,” Geralt told him.</p><p>—</p><p>Geralt rode Roach at a walk the next day instead of pushing her into a trot like he sometimes did. Jaskier kept up. </p><p>—</p><p>The next time he got a contract, Geralt said, after they had finished interviewing the alderman, “Three questions.” </p><p>Jaskier considered carefully. He asked: </p><p>“What’s dangerous about a basilisk?” </p><p>“Where’s the safest place to watch from?”  </p><p>and</p><p>“How can I help you if you need help?” </p><p>Geralt glared, but he should have known better than to expect yes or no questions from a bard. And then, incredibly, he answered in curt sentences: basilisks were a lot like griffins only lizard-shaped, and their tails were venomous in the bargain. This basilisk laired in a cave; if Jaskier tried to observe from those close quarters, he’d get smashed against a wall like a bug. There was a healing potion Jaskier could give to Geralt if the basilisk damaged him so much that he couldn’t return by dusk. Geralt showed him which one, made him memorize the smell and the color and promise never to drink it because only Witchers could without dying.  </p><p>“Stay with Roach,” Geralt said, leaving them to shelter in an abandoned house a good half-mile away from the cave. One of the basilisk’s first victims had lived and died there. “I’ll let you see the corpse afterward.” </p><p>Jaskier had asked, and Geralt had answered. Geralt wouldn’t lie to him. Geralt would be back. </p><p>“All right,” Jaskier said. “We’ll eat snacks and talk about our lovers while you go fight your lizard monster. Have fun.” </p><p>He stayed with Roach. She seemed unimpressed by her kitchen accommodations. While he waited, he drafted the basilisk story, true details from the alderman and the house around him, embellishments from his mind. The basilisk had killed a few humans, but mostly it had taken animals, threatening livelihoods more than lives. (Though the threat of starvation was still dire enough.) </p><p>He would have to be creative to get a good song out of saving a village’s economy instead of a fair maiden. Fortunately, Geralt had proven to be a whetstone as well as a muse, and Jaskier felt sharper already. </p><p>Life with Geralt presented difficulties, but they seemed surmountable now. And Jaskier liked challenges. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Constructive criticism is welcome. Thank you for reading &lt;3</p><p>Also, the finding Roach about to be glue thing was inspired by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22347031">Between Roaches, by RabidRabbit</a>, which is a beautiful, sad, hope-giving fic about Geralt's process of getting a new Roach. Highly recommend but be prepared for Serious Feelings.</p></blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
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